


Chinese Lanterns

by CoelacanthKing



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bloodloss, Brawling, Childhood, Childhood Memories, First Meetings, Flashbacks, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Suicide, Reaper76 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7809034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoelacanthKing/pseuds/CoelacanthKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Morrison returns to Indiana one sweltering summer, and the memories that follow him are more tangible than he realizes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins.
> 
> This series is primarily inspired and fueled by the song Chinese Lanterns by The Temperance Movement. It's become the theme of my summer, and is arguably the saddest damn song I've ever heard. The story will follow Jack, but the lyrics could apply to either him or Gabe. Give it a listen and suffer with me.
> 
> I've got at least five chapters planned out for this, but we'll see how much my brain can crank out by the time all's said and done.
> 
> I'm also the self-proclaimed President of the 'Gabriel Reyes had a wimpy little ponytail as a child' club.

 

 

Jack remembered a summer just like this.

It had been so disgustingly hot. It had been the kind of heat that kept you indoors, face-down on the floor with the AC cranked. The kind of heat that made you question the existence of a higher power.

He hoisted the duffel higher onto his back and pulled the slack tight, all without breaking stride. Every other step or so, he vaguely felt the stock of the pulse rifle press through the canvas and jab into his spine. That, combined with the heavy jacket balled up at the bottom of the bag, the visor, and the muffled clink of biotic canisters and helix rockets tapping against each other, would have weighed down any other man his age. With the heat, it would have _killed_ any other man.

It didn't surprise Jack that the valley hadn't ever upgraded to paved roads. Only the highway was commuted frequently enough to merit needing asphalt, and so it seemed that the lanes between the fields and ditches and far-flung houses would always be dirt ones. He instinctively kept to the right, the crunch of grit under his boots and the screaming of the cicadas and grasshoppers filtering into a muzzy and surreal reminder of where he had ended up. It had been a real chore to get through Colorado, for sure. After taking the rifle from Grand Mesa, Jack had been hounded from Aspen to Boulder, then beyond. He'd stolen a couple of cars and a motorcycle, ditching them all, and finally, about a third of the country later, he'd been chased back here.

A truck was coming up the road behind him. A souped-up V8 by the sound of it, one of those 'compensating' trucks that Midwesterners just couldn't seem to leave in the past. Jack didn't turn to acknowledge it, didn't stick out his thumb for a lift. Just kept his head down and marched. When the vehicle blew past, it's occupants all leaned out of the windows to hoot and jeer and honk at the old man. Kids shaped by the valley, who had never been out of sight of a corn field in all their lives. The truck's hovers blew grit and dust into his unprotected face, and just like that they were speeding past, pushing the already irresponsible speed limit.

“Indiana, you big beautiful disaster.”

Just a little further. Ten miles or so. He wondered, for the thousandth time, if Thom would be happy to see him. If he had put their mother into a home-- if their mother was even still alive. Probably not, to both questions. He wasn't dumb enough to knock on the door and ask for a meal. He'd just pass by. It had been coincidence that he ended up here at all.

The stretches between plots became shorter and shorter. Jack recognized the corners of the fields as he passed them, admiring the good colors on the corn and okra that grew there. Recollecting the faces of the men and women who had worked them in his youth. Their children were working them now, most likely. He ticked off the names as he walked-- Branger. Porras. Simpson.

Morrison.

The fence was a surprise. It wasn't high enough to keep anyone out, but the post and wire structure spreading from the corner of the plot at a 90 degree angle made its message clear. Behind stood a thicket of corn, head high, all of it dead. The stalks stood loose in the soil, gaunt and bleached like pale scarecrows.

Jack's inner farmer was appalled. How the hell did Thom let the whole crop die? And why was there a fence?

He followed the fence, breaking off withered ears and leaves as he walked, mood darkening further with every step. He had a mind to march right up to the porch, pull a pistol on his brother, and demand to know what the hell the idiot was thinking.

The turn onto their property was there, as it had always been. The mailbox still stood. But the gate was a new development. It, and the notice board drilled to it, had been hit with so much graphitti that Jack couldn't tell what the original message had been.

_OVERWATCH WAS NEVER GREAT. MORRISON THE FRAUD. FORGOT WHERE YOU CAME FROM._

Dead corn grew on either side of the lane, and down it Jack could see the house: it still stood, but just. It had been yellow once, his mother's favorite color. But the stain had faded and stripped away years ago, leaving pale panels on the exposed wood. The windows on both floors had been boarded over; no one had jumped the fence to tag the house, but it was almost worse to see it like this.

A gust blew down the road, moving the dust along and agitating the cicadas, who screamed all the louder.

\---

The summer after his fourteenth birthday, Jack spotted a boy standing on the perimeter of the soy field at the furthest end of their property.

Regardless of distance, he could tell it was a boy just by sight alone; girls were generally more careful with their posture, and rarely went anywhere without reason. The indifference this loiterer showed told Jack what he needed to know, and he walked barefoot through the rows of calf-high plants to intercept the stranger before he made his way elsewhere.

Enoch Jones' father had grown soy for a few seasons as well, but his had never been as plentiful or as healthy as the Morrison's. _He's stuck in his ways, doesn't move the soil around as often as he should_ , Patrick Morrison had told his boys. And so the Jones farmhands, and even Enoch himself on occasion, were sometimes seen hovering at the edge of their property like buzzards on a wire, wanting to spy and intimidate and generally be a nuisance. Jack had never been afraid of any of them, and had always been quick to react to the threat to their farm.

But to his genuine surprise, the boy who dawdled at the edge of the field wasn't Enoch Jones, or any other boy he knew. The Morrison's fields and their neighbor's fields were separated by stretches of single-lane dirt roads, and this young man stood on the Morrison side of the road, gazing west. His nose was solid, and the outline of his jaw would fill out into a strong and jutting shape one day. His bronze skin was slick with sweat from the brutal heat of late day, soaking his tank top; dark hair pulled away from his face, wavy, secured in an adolescent ponytail. But he showed no discomfort in the heat, only intent, looking toward the horizon like something he craved would appear there soon, very soon.

Jack's fascination ruined his ambush; his foot swung carelessly into a soy plant, and the stranger gave a little start at the rustle, coming about to face him. So caught up were they both in their own heads that neither of them knew how to react to the other; like two dogs, their shoulders stiff and tails held high, ready to play or run or bite.

“Hey.” Jack said finally.

“Hey,” said the stranger. “This your field?”

“Yeah.” Jack took this as an invitation to close the gap between them, coming up to the boy's side and standing with him as if he'd been planning to loiter all along.

The boy sneered slightly, the action causing an eyebrow to drop, a bead of sweat shaken from his eyebrow to roll down his cheekbone. “It all looks the same to me.” He paused, blinked. “Guillermo Reyes is my uncle.”

He knew the man, a bony and quiet corn farmer who lived on the opposite side of the highway. “Are you visiting from Indianapolis?”

“L.A.”

Jack blinked, processing the acronym. “Like... Los Angeles, L.A?”

“Did I stutter?”

Los Angeles. The very notion of it was exotic, busy, loud. He couldn't imagine it.

“I'm Gabriel.” He intoned it with an accent, _Gah-bree-el_. Jack found himself liking the way he said it.

“Jack Morrison.” He offered his hand; it was stupid for two teenage boys to shake hands, they both knew it. But it was just something farmers did, and Jack had been steeped in the valley his whole life. But Gabriel didn't find this awkward, and he gave his hand a squeeze before returning it to the pocket of his shorts.

They stood on the side of the road like that, just talking. Did it usually get this hot, were any of the teams in California gonna go all the way this year? Eventually Jack picked up a handful of stones from the road and started hurling them over to the other side, attempting to hit the corn that grew there.

Gabriel observed him for a while, then chose a stone at his feet. He didn't hesitate a second before it left his hand with the velocity of a bullet, and Jack saw the silk get shredded from the top of an ear. Another stone was selected, and this one broke the same ear away from the stalk with a wet snap.

“Holy shit,” breathed Jack.

Gabriel's only response was to grin. “I don't miss. Ever.”

Jack hustled to the other side of the road and found the ear among the stalks, shucking it with practiced speed where he stood. All the corn he'd seen from the roads looked good this year, and this field was no exception. Holding the cob in both hands like a baton, he gave it a wrench, cracking it cleanly in two. He ambled back across to Gabriel and tossed him half of the ear as he walked.

He caught it, but seemed to be unaware of what to do with it until Jack started to tuck into his half. “What,” Jack prodded, “never had raw corn before?”

“Never.”

“It's good. Sweeter.”

At first it seemed like Gabriel would pass on the offer, but he let curiosity get the better of him, and Jack saw how his eyes lit up on that first bite, how the milky starch and concentrated sugar made a believer out of this city boy.

_What's he doing out here?_

Not even ten minutes later, cobs disposed of and licking the sweet from their lips, they picked up the thrum of an engine, and Jack craned his neck to see the familiar cola brown outline of his father's pickup truck rolling down the road towards them. At his side Gabriel made a move as if to run across the road, but Jack soothed him before he could take off into the corn.

“Relax, it's my dad. He'll be cool with you.” Gabriel didn't say anything, but he nodded and smoothed out his composure, sticking close to Jack as the truck slowed and parked, kicking up a fat cloud of dust.

Patrick Morrison took his time stepping down from the truck. He was over fifty, but he had the build of a boxer, and his hands could squeeze an apple to pieces. With his strength came a sincerity that Jack hadn't encountered in any other man. Patrick didn't have to boast or intimidate to be respected, and Jack had once decided, long ago, _that's the kind of man I want to be_.

Mr. Morrison greeted his son with a smile that could have melted glaciers. “Jackaboy, you're not answering your phone.” Surprised, Jack patted his pockets.

“Uhh... Sorry, dad. I think I left it in my room.”

“That's fine, you're just fine. At least you're not getting into trouble.” It was then that the old farmer noticed Gabriel, and his smile turned wry. “Or are you?” He introduced himself to the boy the same way Jack had, with a firm handshake. “You wouldn't happen to be Guillermo's nephew, would you? I heard tell of you showing up sometime this week.”

“I am, sir. Gabriel Reyes.”

“How'd you get all the way over here, on the other side of the highway?”

“I walked, sir.”

Patrick laughed at this. “You hoofed it! Right on! Well Gabriel, it's gonna be late soon here. I'd be happy to give you a lift home. Hell, by the time we pass our house it'll be dinnertime. You should eat with us.”

Jack expected Gabriel to decline, but to his surprise the boy took up the offer. “Only if it wouldn't be a problem, sir.”

“Go ahead and toss the 'sir', Gabe. You call me Patrick, you hear? I'm gonna go ahead and call your uncle while we drive so he's not worrying over you.”

Room was made in the back of the truck for the boys, so they could sit with their backs to the cab. Mr. Morrison made sure they weren't going to be launched out before getting in and starting it up. Soon they were speeding down the road at a fair clip, and from his spot directly behind the driver's seat, Jack could hear his father on-call with Gabriel's uncle through the open window.

“Reyes? It's Pat, how's it going? … Well, I've got your nephew here with me and- … Oh no, oh lord no, he's not in any trouble, not at all!”

Gabriel rode with his knees against his chest, staring out at the passing corn and soy and okra fields with obvious distaste. If he could hear what was being said inside the cab, he didn't react to it. Jack had to wonder about that.

They pulled up to the house five minutes later, the sun turning the normally buttery yellow of the structure to a vibrant amber. Jack's mother was settled into her rocking chair on the porch, idly peeling apples, navy sundress loose and peppered with bits of peel and seed. She stood slowly, her bad hip making her wobble with the action, but Emily Morrison had nothing but sunshine to offer Gabriel as she ushered the men into the house.

There was just a simple stew and biscuits for dinner, but Gabe ate like he'd never tasted anything finer. He asked for a second bowl, part of a third, and Emily beamed and clapped her hands at this marvel of an eater who had graced her kitchen. More than once, Jack caught Thom openly staring at their guest, eyebrows knitting slightly, spelling out his displeasure for all to see. Jack's response was to kick his brother under the table.

After dinner, he and Gabe returned to the back of his father's truck. There had been warm apple jam to go with the biscuits for dessert, and Jack marveled at the other boy's ability to put away about half a jar of the stuff.

“I've got three sisters,” Gabe explained. “We all got pretty competitive when it came to food.”

Jack chuckled at this, but something in the way Gabe had said it sat wrong with him. He'd spoken of his sisters like they had died, in the past tense.

Thom had gone back up to his room to sulk after dinner, and his parents were enjoying their ritual evening coffee before Patrick took Gabe back across the highway. The sky had set itself ablaze in the failing light, all crimson and indigo. Insects droned out in the fields, and soon the raccoons and opossums and coyotes would be on the prowl between the rows.

“Why were you over on our side of the highway?”

Gabe did not fidget; he was not one to fidget, Jack knew instinctively. He only peered intently into the half-full mason jar, as if contemplating running his fingers around the inside of the rim.

“I was bored. Went for a walk.”

“All the way over here?”

“All the way over here.”

“My dad knew who you were.”

“Farmers talk, don't they?”

Silence. A lark flew overhead, on route back to its nest before nightfall.

“...Did your dad say anything about me before today?”

“No.”

“Good.” He caved, swiping up a fingerful of jam and sucking on it eagerly. “Your mom's nice. Quiet, but nice. My mom's are loud.”

Jack nodded. “A horse trampled her when she was little. Messed up her bones and her head, so she's a little slow. But dad loves her. And you're avoiding the subject.”

Gabe sucked on his teeth, playfully irritated. “Damn. You're nosy.”

“It's my best feature.”

Using a finger he hadn't put into his mouth, Gabe traced the bridge of Jack's nose, tip to top. Jabbing at the other's eye at the end of the motion, making Jack flail and laugh. “Hm, yes. Exquisite. Four out of five, a nose among noses.”

“But ultimately, the gold medal goes to Mr. Reyes, for practical and artistic use of his black hole stomach!” Pivoting, Jack wrenched the jar away from Gabe, tipping it up and letting its contents slide leisurely into his mouth. From the corner of his eye he caught the other boy grinning; all teeth, all mirth.

They danced around each other's questions, finishing dessert between them as the sky began to go inky above, the porch light their only beacon in the dark. In the way a painter knows that a work has been completed, or how birds just know when it's time to take wing and head south, a truth cemented itself between the two of them. That they would be best friends, that one would go wherever the other would, reveling in the other's accomplishments. That, ultimately, they would end up breaking each other's hearts, as only the closest companions can.

Finally there was no more jam, no more little corners for Gabriel to tuck himself into.

“Are you going back to L.A at the end of the summer?”

“Probably not... No. No, I'm not. I can't go back.”

“Why?”

Gabe gripped the empty jar in both hands, sitting very still. Very, very still. From out in the soy a coyote bayed, and the night sky was so open and deep that it felt like they might fall into it.

“I killed someone.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Some serious violence goes down in this chapter. If you're adverse to ALCHOHOL ABUSE, RACISM, BLOOD, STITCHES, SUFFOCATION, or anything pertaining to it, tread carefully or not at all.
> 
> Chapter 2! I didn't think I'd make it past Chapter 1!  
> As stated above, this is a chapter chock full of triggers. Be wary.
> 
> Updates to Chinese Lanterns are gonna be a little further spaced from now on, on account that I'm an author participating in the Overwatch Big Bang over on Tumblr! Submissions to join have already been closed, but I so look forward to the final products the fans are gonna put out en masse!

 

 

Despite the miles and the highway separating them, Gabe came to see Jack every day. Sometimes he arrived early enough to join them for breakfast, other days he showed up right at noon. But he always came. He walked there, never letting his uncle drive him over, but it was always Guillermo or Patrick that took him back across the highway every evening.

Some mornings, before the birds even began their warbling, Jack's dad would creep into his room and nudge him awake. _Gotta beat the sun_ , he'd say, and Jack would rub the sleep from his eyes and topple out of bed. Downstairs, with Thom, his mother would press PB&J's into their hands and a kisses to their brows, and the Brothers Morrison would drowsily climb the step into the pick-up. Patrick would drive them to the furthest ends of their fields, to their neighbor's fields, and Jack and Thom would pull weeds and pick beetles from the crops until the morning progressed and it got too hot to work.

“Why'd you never tell me about Gabe?” He asked one day, just as the sweat was starting to bead down his arms. Patrick looked up from the plant he was tending, working his jaw.

“Tell you what about Gabe?”

“You knew he was coming here before I did. Why didn't you bring it up?”

“Huh... Must've slipped my mind. You know how it goes, Jackaboy. You hear it over the wire and lose track of it until it comes back to the surface.”

Jack, in fact, did know. But it didn't put his mind completely at ease.

But it all ended up being moot. When they returned, pulling into the lane and up towards the house, Jack recognized the boy seated in the shade of the covered porch. Waiting for him.

Thom scoffed, muttering something rude. Jack ignored him, nearly climbing out the window of the moving truck in his haste. Once at his side, Gabe knuckled his cheek affectionately. Called him a farm boy. Jack only shrugged, not denying the truth.

He guessed that the walking was an excuse for Gabe to pass the time. If so, he knew the feeling. He owned a bike, but in a way it was almost easier to walk. Sometimes, if the heat wasn't so bad, they would trek the three miles down to The Blue Spoon for milkshakes. It was here that Gabe introduced him to the concept of fried egg and avocado on burgers.

“Try it,” he had coaxed. “It's really good!”

Jack was hesitant. Eggs were for breakfast, and he'd hardly ever touched guacamole before. But eventually he bent, as Gabe had with raw corn, and he immediately fell in love with how the creaminess of the avocado cut against the grease, how the yolk dripped liquid gold onto the plate and over his tongue. This, he concluded, was truly the world's best kept secret.

Gabe was chuffed. “We ate 'em like that all the time in L.A.” He'd go on and on about the food there-- pizza the size of your face, as thin as a sheet of paper. The taquerias, each one claiming to have the best adobo and the best pozole in town, dealing with fry bread tacos brimming with beef and chile and sour cream. Pan dulce, the paleterias... But if he talked too much, he'd grow despondent, moody, and Jack would try to distract him as best he could, with movies and comics, audiobooks, the rural satisfaction of going down to the scrubby ditches and chasing grass snakes and crickets.

Gabe's phone was loaded with pictures, and he pulled up scenes from home often, cradling the screen and smiling wistfully at the people and buildings and city things that he could never go back to. He showed Jack a photo from his oldest sister's graduation party, when all of his immediate family had crammed into their loft and made tamales and tres leches cake, eventually inviting the curious neighbors over until everything was hot and cramped and full of love. It had been an on-the-spot photo; someone standing in the corner had shouted, holding up their camera, and everyone had turned and posed just as the flash went off. Jack found Gabe in the photo right away, sporting a checkered red and black hoodie that looked to be two sizes too large for him-- in his arms, a plump tabby cat. His smile in the photo was so genuine that Jack felt a twinge of something syrupy and pleasant trickle into the space behind his ribs.

Jack never asked him about the person he had killed in Los Angeles, and Gabe didn't bring it up again. There were no murmurings in town, no reason anyone else knew as to why the boy had shown up. Maybe, he thought, it had been evasive bullshit, a lie to deter Jack from a simpler truth as to why he was all the way out there. But whenever they wrestled on the front lawn or in the living room, and Gabe got on top of him and pinned his wrists down and grinned his Cheshire grin, Jack always felt his heart start to knock against his ribs, a pool of something icy collecting in his guts. _I_ s _this how it happened?_ But then he would scold himself for thinking so poorly of Gabe, and paid him back for the scare by kneeing him in the stomach.

Anyone else would have been horrified by the confession, if Gabe was to be believed. Anyone else would have cut him off or called the cops or locked up their house as he walked past. But Jack didn't. It was stupid of him not to be, and he'd never confided in it with his parents. It somehow seemed best that they didn't know.

He had begun, insanely, to think of the other in a possessive sense. His friend. _His_ Gabe.

They were complimentary shadows of each other, attached at the hip when they ran through the neighbor's corn or lazed on the lawn. Talking about nothing of any real importance, save it was spoken by the two of them.

\---

“Who's that?”

Jack wasn't paying attention. His eyes were chasing the contrails of airbusses, shuttling goods and money, people _with_ money, up at 40,000 feet. Unaware of the folks who lived and worked down below the curve of the sky.

“Huh?”

“Those people. Who're they?”

Jack didn't have to crane his neck very high-- Indiana was so damn flat, you could see for miles unaided. Sitting up, he followed the line of Gabe's finger, and could make out two shapes stalking the road along their property, one slightly shorter than the other. The taller of the pair crouched down among the soy, inspecting one plant, then stood up, gave it a kick, and continued along the perimeter, it's companion tagging along behind it.

“No,” Jack heard himself say. “Oh, _hell_ no.” Something hot began to spread across the muscles of his back, seeping into his neck, making his hair stand on end... and it wasn't the sun. Immediately he was shoving his feet into his shoes and jogging across the lawn and into the soy, a confused Gabe keeping pace.

“Dude, what's the the big deal?”

“Jones boys,” Jack gritted. “They're nothing but trouble.”

His anger seemed to be a catalyst for Gabe; out of the corner of his eye, Jack could see him grinning, and he began to out-pace him in his eagerness. Vaguely, Jack wondered if this was the best idea, if he should tell him to head back to the house, that he could handle this alone. He wasn't expecting the sudden pang of anxiety, the thought of Gabe _not_ standing with him. He shook it off, told himself it was on account of his nerves.

The goons saw them coming and stopped their creeping to watch Gabe and Jack approach. Now that they were closer, Jack could confirm that the taller of the two was none other than Enoch himself, his accomplice no doubt a son to one of the Jones farmhands. He could also see, as he and Gabe pulled up in front of them, that they had been drinking. Enoch clutched the neck of a beer bottle in his left fist, only an inch or so of liquid left inside.

“Enoch,” Jack greeted curtly. Despite his anger, he wasn't going to let it get the better of him. How did that old quote go? 'Speak softly and carry a big stick'? He didn't have such a stick with him, but perhaps Gabe would suffice enough to deter these pests. “What're you doing over here?”

Enoch Jones was an ugly kid, anyone would agree. Not that his constantly greasy hair or his narrow rabbit teeth had anything to do with it, he just had a nasty attitude. He sneered, gregarious from the get-go. “Can't a guy take a walk, Morrison? It's a free country.”

“Not when you go out deliberately trying to wreck someone's crops, and then not eat what you wreck.” The interloper gave a little _pshh_ of dismissal, flapping a hand in the air, acting like threatening someone else's livelyhood wasn't a big deal. It was then he noticed Gabe standing tall at Jack's side.

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Someone who'll kick your ass if you're not careful.” Gabe made a move to step closer, but Jack held him back with a hand, still wanting to be as diplomatic as possible. Enoch snickered at this.

“Lookit that, you got yourself a dog! Chihuahua, by the looks of it.”

“He's not my dog,” Trying to hold the ends of the confrontation together, Jack countered with: ”I'm not sure your dad'll want you to be drinking this early in the day.”

This earned a laugh from both of the Jones boys. “My dad won't care. We're men, not some corn-fed mama's boys.” Enoch's companion grabbed the bottle from him, took a brief swig, then handed it back, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand and grinning.

Under his hand, Jack felt the subtle ripples in the muscles of Gabe's chest, his breaths pushing the cloth of his shirt and his sternum against his palm. “Careful, rata. I've known better men who've drank themselves to death. And _my_ moms would break you over their knees.”

Rolling his eyes, Enoch raised the bottle to his lips, about to finish off the last of the cloudy liquid. “Morrison, tell your wetback to shut up.”

Gabe exploded. In the blink of an eye he'd slapped away Jack's hand, lunging.

“You call me a wetback one more time-”

Enoch's reaction was a knee-jerk one. His elbow wasn't bent correctly, his wits weren't with him, and he flailed. He swung in self defense, and the bottle connected with Gabe's face, shattering in an explosive and brittle pop.

“Gabe!” But before Jack could do anything, Enoch's lackey had latched onto him, attempting to drag him down. But his grip wasn't taut, and Jack instinctively went limp and leaned against him, and he landed in the road on top of the smaller boy, knees and elbows digging into his ribs. They rolled, but Jack came out on top, pinning him with his legs and landing a solid punch to the jaw. The kid was stunned momentarily, and then he was scrabbling to get out from under Jack, the fight immediately sapped from him. Jack eased up and let the coward hobble to his feet and start loping down the road, apparently more than happy to leave Enoch behind.

At the thought of Enoch Jack felt his stomach lurch. He spun around, and the sight was enough for his blood to run cool in his veins, goosebumps pricking his skin. Despite the near 100 degree day, everything around him went as chilly as a tomb.

Gabe knelt in the soy, bleeding. It was in his hair and sprayed across his shirt, no doubt in his eyes. But Enoch Jones' neck was caught in the crook his elbow, and the blood wasn't deterring him. Gripping his bicep and pushing down, he gradually forced Enoch's windpipe further and further into the V. His victim was spastic, flailing, mouth gaping in a silent scream. In the furthest corner of his mind Enoch reminded him of a shed lizard tail; still motivated by the nerves of a long gone host, thumping, livewire. Not aware of how dead it actually is.

“No, stop!” Jack dove, landing on his knees, hands going for Gabe's fingers to try and loosen the grip. Maybe he didn't hear him, maybe he didn't notice, but if anything he only bore down all the tighter. Jack was close enough to smell the iron reek of his blood, see where the glass had etched a fat line into the top of his right cheek. “You're going to kill him, Gabe!”

Enoch's face was going ruddy, eyes bulging, and his pawing went into overdrive when Gabe began to growl into his ear, jeering and violent. Jack didn't speak Spanish, didn't understand the depth of what was being said, but the ferocity of the delivery made his insides feel like they were drifting apart. Like dust on the wind, like smoke.

_The boy with the checkered hoodie. The honey-sweet smile._

And then he got his fingers under Gabe's, and the coils of his arms went slack, and an exhausted Gabe was shoving his victim away from him with disgust. Enoch writhed among the soy plants he had come to terrorize, liquid seeping out of his nose and down his chin, gagging. Jack paid him no mind, coming around to Gabe's front to take in the full extent of his injuries. He would have asked if Gabe was okay, but the words got caught like a square peg and a round hole, and it saved them both the trouble.

“Look at me. Can you look at me?” Gabe coughed, dragging his tongue across his bloodstained teeth.

Along with the slash across his cheek, Jack could make out a handful of inch-long cuts across his nose, over the left eyebrow and his lower lip. The glass had sprayed outward-- nothing short of a miracle had kept the shards out of his eyes. He didn't know if any of it had embedded itself in his face, but the bleeding needed to be slowed-- Jack peeled off his shirt, folded it, and held it gently to Gabe's slick face. Gabe groaned at the pressure, and Jack let him hold the shirt in place while he helped his friend to his feet. One arm around his torso, the other holding Gabe's arm steady across his shoulders, Jack guided them through the soy and back towards the house, leaving Enoch where he was.

Gabe had to get stitches, a _lot_ of stitches. Their hobble back to the house Jack didn't remember. When everything had slowed down and he could think straight again, he was at Gabe's bedside at the hospital, fingers hovering over the black tally marks that held his friend's face together. He couldn't help thinking of burlap, sailcloth, a poorly-stuffed scarecrow. He tried hard not to cry.

“Quit it, I'm fine.” Gabe played it off, throwing a grin, grimacing because he was learning that it was easier not to talk.

No one learned about what had happened after the bottle broke. Enoch and his family didn't come forward, and Jack wanted to protect Gabe for as long as he could, worried about anything that might seep to the surface in whisper or casual conversation.

Guillermo was hellbent on seeing justice done for his nephew, but all talk of going after Enoch backed by the law tamped his fury. Jack was the only other person who knew the reason why. In any event, everyone was expecting the Jones family to pay for Gabe's medical bills. But when Patrick arrived at the hospital the next day, interrupting the boys and their hospital ice cream cups, he informed them, puzzled, that the Jones family had skipped town. Enoch, his siblings and parents. All of them, gone. Their farmhands had come into work that morning to the house vacant, clothes and trinkets and family photos packed during the night, the family abandoning everything they couldn't stash in their truck and leaving the house void of personality. Just like that, gone.

“It's just the weirdest thing. Like they were spooked bad by something and wanted to get out quick. And it ain't just a case of goes-around-comes-around.”

Jack listened, agog, but in his peripheral vision he saw Gabe focused on his ice cream, scraping up the dregs with the flimsy wooden plank, nodding like this wasn't a surprise at all.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive, I'm well! I haven't forgotten about Jack and Gabe!
> 
> The two biggest factors keeping me from updating Chinese Lanterns on a regular basis is the fic I'm working on for the Overwatch Big Bang (going steady!) and the fact that I'm set to move down to New Mexico in the next month or so. Writing gets done when I have the time and inspiration to do it, but I love this series to much to let it boil away on the back burner!
> 
> And don't worry, I'm not a monster. After all that angst, it's mandatory that I give y'all some fluff.

 

 

The building had been a gas station at one point in the past, the covered portico that housed the cars still standing. A large expansion for seating people had been added to the original cubicle, but Jack doubted that the diner had ever hosted that many customers at once. Market lights were strung from the corners and edges at the top of the structure, drooping like dew on a spiderweb, already lit in anticipation of evening. Beside the door hung a holoboard; an azure untensil endlessly splashing coffee out of a mug, moved by an unseen hand. Forever slinging caffeine, doomed like some roadside Sisyphus.

It was still here. After all this time, it was still here.

The Blue Spoon was a shitty little diner, but it had been _their_ shitty little diner. Little more than a hovel with a kitchen, it had witnessed some of his and Gabe's best; dropping quarter after quarter into the archaic jukebox, playing the same songs over enough times to drive the patrons and staff up the greasy walls. Jack dunking his straw into Gabe's milkshake and taking a perfectly timed drag as Gabe did the same, driving them both to fits of spluttering laughter.

An 18-wheeler blew by at a rude clip, and the dust it displaced to the sides of the road mimicked a minor sandstorm. Jack blew out grit from between his lips, scowling.

He could keep walking, sure. But he recalled the last place he'd eaten being somewhere back near Kansas City, and regardless of whatever the techs had filled him with that kept him upright, it was foolish to go on without food for much longer. The fear of someone recognizing him was a legitimate one, and it almost kept him from going in. Jack Morrison, seen in his home town, _alive_? The implications were staggering.

But to reiterate: it _almost_ kept him from going in.

“Fuck it,” he grumbled, letting his stomach do the thinking for once.

Crossing the road, ascending the dusty concrete step, pushing the creaking frame of the screen door open with his shoulder, the nostalgia was suddenly right there. Jack bit down the urge to emote.

Other than himself, the diner only hosted three other people, tired farmers that didn't look up from their plates. _Packing 'em in_. The décor had aged as well as moonshine left out in the sun, the same wagon wheels and mounted deer heads gracing the walls that he recalled as a kid. The light fixtures had been updated to Whitelight energy-friendly units, so it wasn't as dark as it had been, but even these modern appliances still flickered on-and-off. The wide wood counter and the leather stools were still present, but the omnic cleaning glasses behind the counter was new. And, with a sobering tenderness, Jack saw that the jukebox was no longer in its corner, replaced by the rustling holo of a potted plant.

He sidled over to an unoccupied booth, careful as he slid the duffel bag from his shoulder and beneath the table. It wouldn't do to have something ignite due to friction and have the whole place go up. The fire department wouldn't think twice about letting this place burn to the ground.

A waifish girl, no more than seventeen, rocking a mess of teal hair and a threadbare band t-shirt (Jack thought he could make out the name _VNV Nation_ in faded print), swayed over to him with a menu and a mason jar of ice water. But before she could manage a welcome, Jack interrupted her with a dismissive grumble.

“Burger with fried egg. And avocado, if you've got it.”

A little taken aback, she set down the water and nodded, twittering a brief “sure thing” before stepping back behind the counter.

The cold water made his teeth ache, but it washed the dust down his throat just fine. Jack nursed the glass, huddled further into the booth, prodded the duffel with the toe of his boot. The bell at the door jingled, and two men at least twenty years his junior swaggered in, crowing their _good evening's_ and their _how's it going's_ to the working crew.

No one pointed out the scarred old man, no one saw him scanning the diner like a caged dog, noting all the possible exits and places to hold out. His worries went unfounded-- no one here recognized him.

Presently the waitress returned, sliding a porcelain plate onto his table. The burger was just as large as he remembered them being, patty thick as his thumb, the top bun threatening to tip off the whole thing as it balanced on top of a pillow of romaine and avocado. The egg had been pierced on its way to the table, already seeping in a steady flow down the sharp edges of the lettuce, beginning to soak the fries that accompanied the meal in a salty little haystack.

“Cheers, Gabe,” he murmured, gathering up the burger and tucking in with gusto, savoring it for the friend who no longer could.

As he ate, Jack's thoughts drifted back to the house, the withered cornfield, and the mystery of it set him further on edge. He needed to investigate. Halfway through his meal he flagged down the waitress as she was passing his table, toting two slices of coconut cream pie for the men he'd proceeded. “'Scuse me. A question.”

She gave a little jump at his voice, tip-tapping in place with her tray as he addressed her. Lost in her thoughts while on autopilot at work, mind on school or boyfriend or something alike. “Er, uh, yeah. What's up?”

“The house a couple of miles back... with the fence and the dead corn. What happened to it?”

Whatever had occupied the kid's thoughts were set immediately on the back burner-- chestnut eyes went wide, her slouch correcting itself in an instant. Gaping, then reeling herself back in.

“You're not from around here. You don't know.”

“I'm not, no.”

“That was Jack Morrison's house. You know about Jack Morrison?” Jack make a noise that could have meant either yes or no; the girl continued, propping the edge of her tray against the table as she took up a tone one would use to tell ghost stories or speak ill against a rival. Gearing up for gossip, a talent honed by living in the sticks.

“Big Overwatch man, one of their head honchos. He grew up there. He was one of the guys who died in that big blast in Geneva a few years back. I was only a kid. But Morrison, he died, right? And his whole family lost it. The mom kicked not long after, due to a broken heart some say. And the brother... He held on for a couple of years after. But one day they found his body in there, strung up and hanging from the rafters.

“The county wants to turn it into a museum or something, a memorial. Only reason it's still standing. But that place gives everyone the creeps... Haunted, no doubt about that.”

She took her leave at that, content to let the stranger hang on her parting words. And he did. The old man folded a fry in half, used it to mop up egg yolk on his plate. Chewed. Listened to the semis and trucks on the dirt road outside fly by, the noise hardly muffled by the thin, time-worn walls.

 

-

 

'Torrential'. That's the word that came to mind as they sat out on the porch, watching the storm.

It hadn't rained a drop all summer, and now it seemed that Mother Nature was making up for her neglect. The clouds had rolled in around lunchtime, hovering, courteous enough to hang there for a couple of hours while everyone on the ground scurried to get animals and vehicles under some cover, buffing the fields with sandbags. The first fat drops came intermittently, a leaky sink. Then the pipes came undone, and soon the beat of the rain rolled down the dusty roads in a watery timpani, washing out the ditches, smothering the sky.

Jack and Gabe had thrown themselves right into the downpour, hooting, kicking fantails of water at each other. Thom stood soaking beside the trucks, sweeping back his hair, head tilted towards the sky. Not as sour as he normally was.

They were ushered back onto the porch after a few minutes by Emily, who waited for them with mugs of apple cider and towels straight out of the drier. The boys huddled and drank, a pod of three sheltered on the deck, in awe of the hammering of the rain, the leviathan tremor of thunder that raised the hair on their arms. Squinting through the weather and past the lane, Jack could swear that he saw an ark go floating on by down the road.

“It's not safe to be out,” Emily murmured in her simplistic, toneless way. “You should stay here tonight, Gabe.”

The boy in question looked up from his cider, flashing the woman a shy smile, still unused to her kindness even after a whole summer. “I think so too, Mrs. M.”

“He's not sleeping in my room,” Thom muttered to Jack's left. Whatever he'd experienced in the rain had been blotted out, and he was back to his moody ways. Jack bristled, subtly turning his body in a way that best shielded Gabe, who sat on his right.

“Why would he sleep in your room? He'll stay in mine.”

Gabe said nothing, and Emily turned back into the house with a smile, blissfully oblivious of the tension between her sons.

They all had an early dinner, and Gabe called his uncle to let him know he was staying over. Jack helped his mother gather some clean blankets, toting them up the stairs for her so she wouldn't upset her bad hip. Once settled in his room, Gabe was content to fold the blankets into a makeshift sleeping bag on the floor, but inspiration struck Jack in a sudden bolt.

“Here, wait a sec!” He snatched a quilt from the top of the pile, shaking it out. Dragging his desk chair closer to the bed, he tied one corner of the blanket to the high back, the other to the bedpost. Pulling the chair so the fabric was taut, Jack stuffed a corner into one of the drawers of his dresser, pushing it closed, letting the fourth corner fold in on itself, creating a lopsided triangle that partially concealed the space within. The mouth of a cottony cave.

Gabe was intrigued, but couldn't resist giving Jack a hard time. “What are we, nine?”

“Oh, come on,” Jack wheedled. “I've never had anyone to make a fort with before. Gimme a hand.”

Together they stripped Jack's bed of its blankets and pillows, lining the floor of the fort with bedding, throwing a final sheet over the chair to complete the illusion of isolation. They shed their clothes down to their boxers and tanks, made sure to grab their phones, killed the lights, and climbed inside.

Yes, Gabe admitted. This had been a good idea.

They huddled side by side beneath the comforter, propped up on pillows and listening to the storm. Without the lights a gray gloom settled in through the slats of the blinders, the rain painting a cool palate before night fell. A new peal of thunder cracked, seemingly overhead, and Gabe shuddered. Storms were different when you lived in the city, he said; the buildings held back the sky, people scurrying into their little pockets of shelter, in whatever corner they called their own. The water would sluice into the drains, not collecting on the surface like it did out here. Ozone and asphalt coalesced into a greasy odor that hung around as the sun baked the water away, humidity clinging to skin and metal.

The sound of someone climbing the stairs hushed Gabe, and he and Jack listened on in heightened silence-- kids who don't want to get caught awake after bedtime. Footsteps turned, paused just outside of the door. A silent moment followed by a nasal scoff, and the steps continued on down to Thom's room, door opening and closing with a creak.

“Your brother doesn't like me,” Gabe admitted with a flat smile. Jack rolled his eyes, unlocking his phone and flicking though his music playlist.

“Thom doesn't like anything. I don't think he can help it. One time he tried to ask this girl out, actually tried to be nice, and she told him 'no thanks' before he even said anything.”

Gabe's laugh soothed him, and he settled on an album full of soft synth beats, music crafted at the turn of the century for a low-tech, 8-bit audience. The notes didn't drown out the sound of the rain, instead adding to it, weaving in and out of the drops at low volume, drawing them further into their crooked little fort. A buffer that kept the rest of the world on the other side of the door, out in the storm, away from them.

“You're staring again.”

“...Whuh?”

Gabe was stretched out on his side, one arm propped beneath his head, the other draped across his blanketed hip. A loose curl of sable hair had fallen away from his brow, catching on the jagged curve of his nose. He smiled, and the puckered scars on his face rippled with the gesture.

“Sometimes you look at me weird, that's all.”

Heat leapt unbidden to Jack's cheeks, his ears burning. “I was just...” He hesitated, trembled. Then unfolded his arm from beneath him and reached, tucked the stray wisp behind Gabe's ear. Hovered. Found a scar, traced it as delicately as possible.

“Do they still hurt?”

Gabe closed his eyes. Lips parted, soaking up the tenderness. “Sometimes. But not for long.”

Ashamed, Jack recoiled, his hand pulling away to rest underneath his chin. The urge to cry, to plead, swamped him for a split second, then waned. “I'm sorry, Gabe. I'm sorry.”

“Hey, I told you to quit that. Wasn't your fault. Besides, I think I look kind of handsome with them.”

“You were handsome without them.” The confession shocked Jack with the ease he had said it. That he had said it so simply, so truthfully... but it _had_ been the truth.

Gabe was silent for a long moment. Then, downcast, demonizing: “...You were afraid of me, huh?”

Jack didn't want to remember, but he remembered regardless. Not a day, not an hour went by when he didn't think about it. The realization that Gabe really was capable of violence opened up a pit in his spirit, a sinkhole that couldn't be filled no matter how much cement you poured into it. He could have easily killed Enoch. He could have easily killed that person in Los Angeles. But Jack made himself play Devil's Advocate; he would have done the same thing, surely, if his own life had been threatened. And that's the conclusion he came to every time he thought about it. Every single time.

“I was afraid _for_ you.”

The sigh Gabe uttered was rattling, despondent. Outside, the hour was growing late, and shadow had already begun to seep into the bedroom from beyond. The music kept the dark at bay, as did the blocky glow of Jack's phone; dusting the curves of the pillows, settling snow-like in Gabe's curly hair, highlighting the angle of his elbow when he buried his face into the crook of it.

“Jack... You and me, we're not gonna be kids for much longer. Next time I screw up big, you gotta let me take the fall for it.”

Silence. The mood was keen, yet slipping. Like a knife trying to make purchase in the rind of a watermelon. The bariometric pressure was severe, sapping their energy, making them dozy.

“...We'll work it out.”

A longer pause. The white noise of the storm came to them muffled through the window. Then Gabe adjusted his elbow, reached for Jack's hand, clasped, the contact setting Jack's heart to quivering. As intimate as it was, it was the grip of two comrades: fingers gripping palm, brotherly and secure.

Gabe settled deeper into his pillow, humming, the need for sleep more important than the need to talk.

“Okay, farmboy. We'll work it out.”

Jack didn't remember falling asleep. Maybe he never did. The firmness of the floor beneath the fort's bedding may have robbed a true sleep from him, tipping him in and out of wakefulness like a pendulum. His psyche responded in kind; during the night, he heard Gabe murmur to him.

“Jack. What do you dream about?”

It could have been a figment. A product of the storm and warm blankets and the ache in his heart. He answered truthfully.

“You.”

He woke with the birds. A runny beam of light had made its way into the bedroom, illuminating little, hitting the wood floor in a dull pool just out of reach from the edge of the fort. He could have reached for it, could have dipped his fingers into it if he tried. The rain had quit during the night, as had the music, and Jack could sense the humidity just past the window. It'd be running down their backs before noon, trickling into their lungs in rivulets with every breath. But not right now.

Gabe was a heavy sleeper. His dark form dozed on its belly, face lost among the pillows. Shoulder blades rose in twin curves, settled in supple hills, with every soft breath. Jack was content to watch him in his half-awake stupor, not daring to move.

He'd be starting high school soon, and Gabe would transfer over to his sophomore year with him. The forays into the fields would become fewer. Gabe would stop coming to their house every day. A wrench was being thrown into the workings of their summer-- Jack had always been indifferent to summers, but the loss of his freedom took something from him that hadn't been present all those past years.

Gabe shifted; it was enough movement to refocus Jack's attention, to act on sleepy impulse, to ghost his thigh against his friend's beneath the heavy comfort of the blankets.

Outside, a meadowlark trilled.

 

 

 


End file.
